We hold each other’s gaze, the tension drawn tight and quiet.
Me, motionless, lungs tight, ribs clenched around the stillness.
Him, unreadable, set, rooted in the doorway like part of the frame.

Neither of us speaks.
Just the low hum of the house settling around us,
like even the walls are waiting to see who will flinch first.

I glance back at him.
He doesn’t look away.

His jaw is tight. Arms still crossed.
Not a stance of anger,
but something colder.
Resignation.
Like he’s known this moment was coming all along.

“We let you back in.”
His voice is low. Tired.
“God, I didn’t want to admit it but…”
He trails off, jaw tightening like he’s biting down on the rest.

Then his hand lifts, slow and deliberate,
gesturing to the objects still laid out on the floor:
The necklace.
The trainers.
The keys.

Evidence.
Proof.
A reckoning.

“I know what you’ve done.”

He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t raise his voice.
Just speaks with a quiet certainty that lands heavier than anger ever could.

I try to speak, but the words catch in my throat.
So instead, I offer the only thing I have left.

“You don’t understand.”

He doesn’t flinch.
Just nods once, like that’s exactly what he expected me to say.

“No,” he says.
“I think I do.”

He steps out into the hall, not rushing, not hesitating.
Just calm.
Measured.
I watch as he lifts his phone and dials.

His voice is low, flat, almost bored.
My name.
My address.
Nothing more.

I know what it means.
It won’t be long now.

No sirens.
No shouting.
That’s not how they do it anymore.

There’ll be a van.
Plain.
Grey.
Quiet.
A knock at the door.
A soft voice, asking if I’m ready.

And I’ll follow.
Because that’s what you do.
That’s what happens when they’ve decided what you are.

Until then, we wait.
I sit on the floor,
the boards creaking as they settle beneath my weight.
My father still stands etched in the doorway,
not to stop me,
just to remind me there’s nowhere else to go.

But what would be the point in running?
What good would pleading do when it was always going to lead back here:
this moment, this room, this reckoning.

I breathe.

Take in the space around me.
Watch as specks of dust drift through the shaft of light
cutting across the wreckage:
papers torn,
foam spilling,
fragments of the past exposed.

I feel the faint breeze from the open window to my left,
soft against my skin,
almost kind.

I close my eyes, and for a moment, I let my mind drift.
Not to the room.
Not to the wreckage.
But to a softer day.
One that doesn’t ask to be remembered,
yet never fully left me.

The sun was high.
Warm light on my skin,
a faint breeze brushing the back of my neck.
I was ten.
My mother had made ice lollies out of orange juice.
My father wrestled the old paddling pool into shape on the lawn.
Nothing important happened.

But I remember the way the sun caught the tips of the grass,
the slap of bare feet on wet ground,
the buzz of bees somewhere just out of sight,
the splash of water,
sharp and bright against the quiet hum of summer.

For a moment, it felt like the world had no edges.
Like I could stay there forever.
Untouched.

But it’s gone now.
Nothing more than a distant memory.
Frayed at the edges.
Too soft to hold, too sharp to forget.
Like water in cupped hands,
fleeting, impossible to keep.

In the distance, I hear the low hum of an engine.
Steady.
Growing closer.

I rise slowly — joints stiff, body heavy —
as if time folded in on itself,
pressing years into a single moment.

My father doesn’t move.
He just watches, jaw clenched,
eyes fixed somewhere past me.

I wonder what he’ll tell my mother.
That it had to be done?
That there was no other choice?
Will she cry?
Will she even ask?
Would she understand, even if she did?

A knock breaks the silence, firm, official.
Then another, louder, more insistent.

When the door opens, they move with purpose.
No shouting. No hesitation.
Two figures, dressed in padded grey armour.
Not quite military. Not quite civilian.
One holds a sleek black weapon at ease.
The other, a woman, steps forward,
eyes scanning the room until they land on me.

She doesn’t flinch.

“You ready, love?”

I nod.

There’s no struggle.
No protest.
Just the slow sinking into what’s already decided.

Outside, the van waits.
Plain.
Grey.
Unmarked.
One of them slides the door open.
I climb in.

And the door shuts behind me.

I Still Remember — Complete Series

1. https://horrorobsessive.com/2025/07/27/i-still-remember-part-one/
2. https://horrorobsessive.com/2025/08/04/i-still-remember-part-two/
3. https://horrorobsessive.com/2025/08/08/i-still-remember-part-three/
4. https://horrorobsessive.com/2025/08/12/i-still-remember-part-four/
5. https://horrorobsessive.com/2025/08/16/i-still-remember-part-five/
6. https://horrorobsessive.com/2025/08/18/i-still-remember-part-six/